


Reunions

by FossilizedGrablin



Series: Unnamed Series of Pointless Russingon IDK [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Himring, I don't know how to write fan fic, I have a lot of concerns, Implied/Referenced Torture, Lots of denial, M/M, Rough Sex, Telepathy, ain't it great, bratty finwions, but also cuddling, but some sweetness, but they're trying?, hi, i don't know how to tag, not sure if in love with each other or in love with annoying each other, post-angband weirdness, probably, ptsd lurketh, rolled into 4000 words or so of angst, sanwe-latya, should you be concerned?, snarky banter aplenty, so much angst you guys, that's also pretty vague, this fic is probably several depeche mode songs, vague smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 11:38:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12983274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FossilizedGrablin/pseuds/FossilizedGrablin
Summary: Fingon visits Himring as it nears the end of its construction. It's been a while.





	Reunions

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a sucker for Russingon fluff but I wanted a fic that maybe explores a slightly darker angle of the ship. Despite them being BF BFFs, I imagine things are a little weird between them for a while after the rescue. I also kinda went wild with the idea of elf telepathy, so have fun with that?  
> Anyway, I have no idea what I'm doing, really, but I hope you enjoy... Whatever this is, ahahaha.  
> Thanks very much to my dear sweet friends for encouraging my nonsense and Beta-reading!

 

 

 

There was no sound but that of the fire crackling on the huge hearth. Everything about Himring was huge, Fingon thought. Huge and drafty and empty, as construction of the main keep was nearing completion and furniture and decor were sparse.

"Like it?" Maedhros had asked him upon arrival.

"It's an elegant pile of rocks," said Fingon, grinning up at the imposing, gray castle. It was elegant in sort of bare, unapologetic way. "It looms very nicely," he said. "Just like its lord."

He heard air hiss out of Maedhros's teeth but his cousin's scarred lips were curled back in a smile. "I like looming," he said. "Get inside."

They had chatted amicably as Maedhros gave him the tour, at once falling easily into their usual banter. Fingon was heartened that Maedhros seemed better and better each time they saw each other, even if it was over the course of years. His posture had gradually straightened, his smile came more easily, the faint glow of his _fëa_ became more visible, lessening the dead grayness of his skin. The scars were still there, raked over his once beautiful features, but Fingon told him it gave him an imposing air of ferocity that was really quite comely. Maedhros scoffed, but Fingon had meant it.

Still, it was undeniable that there was still something off about Feanor's eldest. Something in his movements and his speech that didn't belong to the friend he'd known in Valinor, or, he thought grimly, any of the Eldar. Fingon shrugged it off, but he'd heard his siblings muttering about it. _Corrupted. Half gone. Half orc_. There had been a palpable air of relief when Maitimo had given up the crown to his uncle. Maedhros wasn't ignorant of the whispers, either. "But," he'd told Fingon, "it makes no difference. I'm tired, Finno. I'm not a king anymore. I haven't the strength for it." And he hadn't. Not then.

They dined in Maedhros's private chambers on a rickety folding table. "I really hope you're planning to add some decent furniture at some point," said Fingon. He'd cleaned his plate and had swung his boots onto the table, or had started to until it wobbled precariously.

"Of course. Until then, keep your damned feet off the table," Maedhros said. "Savage."

Fingon snickered. “Did your brothers tire of you ordering them around? Is that why you’re all the way out here?”

“Who’s to say I didn’t tire of them?” Maedhros mock-sighed heavily.

“Fair enough! Nelyo, you know I’m a patient soul but Írissë and the Blond One were on my last nerve before I left Hithlum.”  
  
“And you left your father to deal with them. Valiant of you indeed.”

Fingon laughed and reached for his pint of mead. “It’s true, I’d rather climb this freezing hill and face your cruel scorn than loiter about Hithlum for another moment.”

“One would think you’d become weary of scaling mountains in order to see me.”

Fingon heaved a sigh for the ages and took a swig of his mead. Maedhros was placidly sipping on his. “One would certainly think so, wouldn’t they,” Fingon said after swallowing.

They'd settled on a monstrous bearskin rug in front of an equally monstrous fireplace. It wasn't excessive on this frigid hill. He wouldn't bring it up, but Fingon did not care for the cold.

The fire was blazing hot, though, and they'd both shed their cloaks and various other outer layers. Fingon had pulled off his light, Sindar-styled boots and tossed them by the hearth. Maedhros's baggy undershirt left a good portion of his breastbone bare. That too was slashed with white scars, and still not much muscle to speak of.

Maedhros was gazing at him intently. Fingon became conscious that his own shirt had slid down his arm, the skin on his shoulder exposed to the warmth of the fire. He bared his teeth in a grin, having caught Maedhros looking. He did look, occasionally, when they would meet, though they hadn't lain together since Aman. He'd made the mistake once of lingering too long in an embrace, letting his hand slide down to Maedhros's hip, and nuzzling into his neck for a kiss. Maedhros had gone rigid before promptly knocking him out. Fingon had opened his eyes to see the dull gray sky and a pair of wide, hollow golden eyes looking down at him. "That was an overreaction," Maedhros had said quickly, his voice tight. He was kneeling beside Fingon, his copper mess of hair framing his scarred face.

"Just a bit," coughed Fingon, rubbing his cheekbone. "I shouldn't have done that, though. So. Thoughtless idiocy on both ends." He'd tried to smile. Maedhros was ashen.

"You'll be the one with the bruise," he said.

Fingon sat up with a groan. "Well, I did cut off your hand, so I'll let it slide this time," he said wryly.

Maedhros gave a short, sharp laugh that bore just a hint of hysteria. "He would have... They would have-" The words were choked off and he looked away for a moment before he snarled, "Fuck," and rubbed at the stump of his forearm. "The invisible hand is still plaguing me." He sighed and gave Fingon a pale smile. "Sorry, Finno. You meant no harm."

"Not much, anyway," Fingon said, smirking, but then added softly, "you don't have to apologize to me, Nelyo." He scowled. "But you've got a nasty punch for a scarecrow, you know that?" Maedhros offered him his hand and hauled him to his feet. "I overcompensate," he said, releasing him and flexing his long fingers for emphasis. "I've been trying to train this useless appendage to function as I need it for nearly two years and it still needs work."

"It seems to be working just fine," said Fingon, reaching out to take Maedhros's hand, but then realized what he was doing and took it back. Maedhros gave him a sour expression and reached for his hand anyway, taking it in his firm grip. "Come, Finno, you won’t incinerate me."

"Well, no, but you might lay me flat again." Fingon was surprised when Maedhros took his hand and laid it against his chest, over his beating heart.

"Perhaps later," he said. The scarred lips twitched back, he thought, in a hint of a smile. But it was hard to know. Nelyo's mind, which had always been open to him in Aman, was walled off and silent.

It was still silent, here at Himring, with only the snap and hiss of the fire and the doleful howl of the wind outside. Fingon suddenly felt very lonely. Maedhros could stare at him all he wanted and they could banter and nettle each other all night, but what did any of it mean? Fingon realized that despite himself, he still missed his friend in Aman. He missed his lover.

"It's been some time, hasn't it." Fingon nearly jumped when he heard Maedhros's voice answer his thoughts. Had he heard his thoughts? He didn't reply, but he met his gaze. Maedhros spoke again, quietly. "It's been too long."

Fingon raised his brows and playfully readjusted his shirt, trying to quell the acceleration of his heartbeat before it became too excited. "You're not talking about what I think you're talking about, now, are you?" He tried to keep his tone lighthearted, but he craved Nelyo's touch again. Every time they saw each other, he hoped, but he never prodded. Maedhros had never been shy about what he wanted and he'd come around sooner or later. Or so Fingon had told himself. That his dearest friend had closed off his mind to him bespoke of such deep hurt and horror that Fingon had sworn to himself that he would never give Maedhros reason to fear again. If he didn't want to, he didn't want to. Fingon was simply glad he was alive and they were together again.

"It's been too long," Maedhros said again, lower under his breath, as if only to himself. Fingon took initiative and eased forward. He took Maedhros's left hand and cautiously, yet fluidly, climbed into his lap. He hesitated and didn't quite settle when he felt him tense and saw the amber eyes harden. But Maedhros drew him down instead of kicking him off. It still didn't seem quite right.

"Nelyo, if you aren't ready-" Fingon was silenced when a pair of scarred, dry lips crushed into his. He returned the kiss in kind, both shocked and pleased, but also a little wary. It had been decades without even a kiss goodbye between them, save the one foolishly premature attempt Fingon had made early on. Now Fingon feared he might be devoured. He pulled away just long enough to gasp for breath and to laugh, delighted with Maedhros's apparent enthusiasm. He laughed again as Maedhros pulled him back in, throwing his arms around him.

Clothing, it seemed, couldn't be shed fast enough. As much as Fingon wanted to savor the moment and take it slowly, Maedhros appeared to have no such inclination. Fingon asked again, "are you sure you want-"

"Finno," Maedhros had moved against him and Fingon could feel the sharp angles of his body pressed against his, "Hush." Fingon started at the chill that ran down his spine, from the feral snarl of the command. But he didn't want Maedhros to stop, didn't want to smother whatever was happening between them after so long. Fingon would go with whatever Maedhros wanted for now, even finding the prospect intriguing. But he couldn't hold back the sharp cry of surprise and pain when Maedhros's teeth sank into his shoulder, and barely had time to think as he was pushed back and roughly shoved down, down into the fur of the rug, in which his fingers ended up curling and grasping for purchase.

He'd gasped in pain but in joy as well as he was finally reunited with his lover, and gave way to the pleasure of it. Or at least he tried to. He tried to ignore the unease in his gut and the cold silence between them. He'd tried to raise himself up, to shift himself around and look at Maedhros, but he was shoved down again. Looks were deceiving. There was far more strength in him than his bony frame suggested.

"I've missed you," came the hoarse whisper in his ear, after the climax. Another shiver ran down Fingon's spine at the ferocity behind those words and the viselike grip on the back of his neck.

" _Ai_ , love," was all Fingon could breath as Maedhros withdrew and all but crumpled on the bearskin rug next to him. Fingon rolled over on his side to get a better look at him. Maedhros was slick with sweat, his copper hair dark and damp and falling into his face as he lay on the floor panting. Fingon had to work to steady his own breathing, had to work to find the courage to push the hair out of his cousin's eyes. He wasn't afraid of them, he told himself. They were still the same eyes.

Were they always that golden? Had they always shone like that?

Maedhros blinked once and then closed his eyes. Fingon almost thought for a moment that he had fallen asleep, until he felt the long fingers brush over the point between shoulder and neck where he'd been bitten.

"That's no good," came a soft murmur. "I've never drawn blood before."

Fingon exhaled and sidled closer to Maedhros. "You shouldn't hold back so much next time," he said. "Do you want me able to just walk out of here?"

There was a faint wheeze of laughter, but with it that edge of thinly veiled hysteria. Maedhros hid his face in the crook of his arm as his ribs and shoulders shook. Fingon wasn't quite sure he was laughing.

"No, I'll get something for that," he said, clearly enough in his low voice. He sounded composed. He began to push himself up.

"Leave me alone after that brutalizing and I'll weep," Fingon said, seizing a fistful of Maedhros's hair and tugging him back to the ground. He snatched his hand back as he saw his cousin's face go completely blank, saw him... cringe in on himself. Fingon sat up, ignoring the soreness that was already setting in.

"Nelyo, shh, hey now, don't-" He had gently laid a hand on Maedhros's arm but Maedhros pushed it away.

"Finno, hush. Wait up a moment."

Maedhros was already tall to begin with and he towered almost absurdly when viewed from the floor. Fingon frowned after him as he rose and padded silently into the shadows to find whatever medicinal accouterments he sought. He found his lip curling again... He'd seen the damage already, but he would never be used to the sight of the viciously scared back. Old stripes layered over more old stripes from his shoulders all the way down to his calves. His russet hair, falling in a loose tangle down his back, barely hid a third of it. Fingon felt the muscles in his own smooth back tighten in an empathetic reaction. His stomach curled and he had to look away. He tried to return his mind to the warmth of the fire and the warmth inside of him. He tried to remind himself that he was content.

Nelyo knelt down beside him with a small box of medical supplies and a water skin.

"Is that necessary?" Fingon complained.

Maedhros began brushing some foul-smelling ointment over a bandage strip. "Direly," he said flatly.

"What in the name of the All-Father is that?"

"Quality stuff. Wards off infection."

"Because it already smells like death."

"That's a reasonable theory, really. There you are." Maedhros stood again, and went to pick up his trousers. Fingon had twisted his head to eye the evil-looking poultice that had been fastened onto his bitten shoulder.

"No, really, tell me, what is this stuff? It's not athelas."

"It's made from this nasty little plant that only grows in nasty, cold regions. Like Himring," said Maedhros, now pulling on his shirt. "And further north." Fingon caught Maedhros casting him a long sidewards glance. Fingon raised his brows. "Orcs use it," Maedhros said curtly.

Fingon's brows raised further. "That surprises me not in the slightest. Have you developed an intolerance for Athelas, though?"

Maedhros snorted. "Hardly. This is just easier to come by in this region. And you should thank me because that's my personal blend. It smells far less than the..." he hesitated a moment, seeming to have developed a keen interest in the cuffs on his shirt. He gestured absently with his missing hand. "Than what I was introduced to."

" _Ai_ , that's vile," said Fingon. He patted the fur of the rug. "Come sit by me. I'm still naked and I'm getting cold again." He was momentarily blinded when his pair of trousers landed on his face.

"Then dress," came Nelyo's voice. Fingon snatched the garment off his face and shot a glare at his cousin who was now seated next to him, managing the sweetest smile for one whose face was so frightfully scarred. He was being a smug wretch but Fingon found that his heart still seemed to ache with adoration.

"Tonight has been fun, Nelyo," he said. Maedhros's eyes narrowed dubiously. "It was," Fingon insisted, perhaps too emphatically. "It will doubtless be less fun in the morning when I won't be able to walk, but that's all the more excuse to, say," he raised one eyebrow, "stay in bed?"

Maedhros glanced down at his chest, where Fingon had laid his hands. Maedhros took one of them and kissed the back of it, the knuckles, the fingers. Fingon wanted to spring on him, to smother him with his kisses, to hold him and never let him go. But he wouldn't. Not yet.

"I'll be more gentle next time, I promise," said Maedhros, some unidentifiable emotion in his voice. For some reason, Fingon shuddered again, slightly. It must have been the cold. “Not to mention,” Maedhros added after a moment, “there is no bed.”

Fingon snickered and lay back on the rug, tugging Maedhros down with him. Maedhros resisted momentarily, but it was to retrieve his cloak that he’d tossed by the fire, leaning over and fishing it to himself with his long arm. It was huge, heavy and fur-lined. Still the burnt orange of the Fëanorian star. Big enough for the both of them to fit under, even though Maedhros only draped it over Fingon before lying down on his side.

Fingon huddled next to him all the same, feeling comfortable and warm under the enormous cloak. He could feel Maedhros’s steady breathing but his hair had fallen in his eyes again. Fingon couldn’t keep from touching, couldn’t keep his hands off, even if it was only to gently trace the scars, the one on the left side of hs jaw, the myriad, disturbingly symmetrical punctures that encircled his throat, the white lines that disappeared under his shirt.

Maedhros had halted his breathing at the first touch, but he tolerated it. “I’m glad you like them.” His voice was lower than ever, and seemed a little rough.

Fingon didn’t answer, or couldn’t, not trusting his voice. He only moved his fingers back to Maedhros’s face, to caress it again.

They lay in each others’ warmth for some time, and Fingon realized he must have fallen asleep. He became conscious of sunlight was streaming in through the tall, narrow windows, and Maedhros was still curled up next to him, and to his amazement, completely asleep.

Fingon wondered how long it had been since that had happened. When the _fëa_ was exhausted, so was _hröa_ , but Maedhros did take after his father in many aspects, his stunning amount of willpower being one of them. The fool probably forced himself to stay awake until he was on the verge of collapse. It could have been well over a month since he last lay down and fully _slept_.

Fingon himself was now wide awake, and the fire had died, leaving the air outside of Maedhros’s heavy cloak cold. Fingon was contemplating the logistics of dressing, when Maedhros sat bolt-upright with a gasped curse.

“It’s alright, Nelyo, you’re safe,” Fingon soothed, sitting up after him and wincing from soreness. Maedhros whirled, but his feral expression softened.

“Oh. You.”

“Me,” said Fingon, raising an eyebrow.

Maedhros considered him a moment, his face carefully blank, but then his lips curled back in a tentative, sheepish smile. “Forgive me,” he said. “It has been some time.”

“Perhaps it’s because you were cold,” Fingon suggested, raising a bit of the cloak invitingly.

“Sometimes I forget where I am,” said Maedhros, and then added, “It seems I’ve been all over Beleriand over the last decade. I’m glad to have a place to settle down now.”

“As long as you don’t freeze to death. I would hate that.”

“We both will if something isn’t done about the fire,” grumbled Maedhros, standing.

“You know,” said Fingon, “I’m still not sure what possessed you to take up residence here of all places. It honestly seems more like a place Tyelko would enjoy.”

Maedhros stopped as he was about to toss another log on the fire, giving Fingon the side-eye. “It’s more about defense and less about what I would enjoy, necessarily.” Fingon realized this, of course. He was just making idle chatter again. He hated it but the silences were gnawing at him.

Maedhros continued. “I’ll tell you I wouldn’t enjoy leaving Tyelko in charge of defending anything larger than a potato garden.”

Fingon snorted. “You discredit your brother. He guards his wine stash fiercely. Anyway, it just seems so lonely for you out here.”

“I’m not alone, Finno. I have my people. Don’t fret over me.” He tossed another log in the fireplace and then with a word, commanded the blaze into being. Fingon was used to seeing such Fëanorian tricks. Maglor was best at it, surpassing Fëanaro himself with his gifts of speech and song, but Maedhros hadn’t failed to learn at least some of his father’s arts. “The simple ones at least,” he had explained long ago.

Fingon used this opportunity to finally dress. “I’d like to meet everyone.”

“You know most of my retainers, I think. They never shut up about you.”

Fingon grinned widely while lacing up his shirt. “Yes, yes, but the rest of the staff and all. I must be familiar with them if I’m to visit often.”

Maedhros looked as if he were about to say something, but didn’t. He smiled instead. “Join me in the kitchen for breakfast, then?”

“Yes, I wanted to ask the cook about the venison last night.” Fingon pulled on his jacket. “It was absolutely splendid and I need their secrets.”

Maedhros had gone back to his medical box again. “If anyone has the power to wheedle them out of her, it would doubtless be you. Here, let me look at your neck, first…”

Evening came again and they found themselves back in front of the fire in Maedhros’s chambers.

“I’m sorry I’ve only got the rug.”

“And a veritable ocean of blankets,” said Fingon, cozying himself in a luxurious, colorfully patterned quilt. He looked up to find Maedhros staring at him again. Fingon returned the gaze. “What are you thinking, Nelyo?” He was already moving to undo the laces on his shirt.

“I’m thinking… I would share my mind with you again. I’ve longed for it, quite honestly, but…”

Fingon stopped. He didn’t say anything, only reached out to gently rub Maedhros’s arm. He then did what he hadn’t dared to do in years and reached out with his mind. _Nelyo, you don’t have to be afraid._

_No, but I find I’m less often disappointed when I expect the worst._

Fingon could barely contain his delight. He wouldn’t push his luck, however. “See, was that so bad?” he asked aloud.

“Yes.”

Fingon chuckled and leaned up against him.

 _I must have a bed made post-haste,_ came Maedhros’s thoughts _. I can’t stand much more of this stone floor, I don’t care how many blankets we have._

 _It’s not so bad_ , thought Fingon, seeing in his mind some of the odder places they had made love in the past, notably the one near-disastrous episode in the kitchen of Fëanor’s house. But his mind darkened as he got a glimpse from Maedhros of a small, pitch-dark stone room. Old straw poked into his skin and clung to him and the air smelled rotten. And then he was locked out again.

“Are you worried I’ll see more?” Fingon asked carefully.

“It’s bad,” said Maedhros.

“I know."  
  
_No you don’t._

Fingon looked up at him. He was averting his gaze, much like he had for a time after his rescue. Fingon was aware of a massive, cold, subterranean throne room, bare, bruised knees, cold, raw, half-flayed skin, and fear so overwhelming it was nauseating. He couldn’t look up. He couldn’t bear...

Fingon’s mouth was dry but tears were welling in his eyes.  

“Finno…” Fingon looked up. “Please don’t cry. It’s alright.”

Fingon nodded resolutely, but then started to sob. Maedhros made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat.

“No, I’m sorry,” said Fingon, trying to brush tears aside. “I’m making it worse. _Ai_ …”

 _You see why I don’t share_. The hint of gently wry amusement made Fingon smile through the tears.

“I am sorry, Nelyo, I’ll get hold of myself.”

“Don’t apologize, dearest. I’m weary of apologies between us.”

Fingon was silent for a moment. He softly reached out to Maedhros’s mind again. _I am here for you. You don’t have to hide your memories from me_ , he thought.

_Perhaps allowing you back in will keep me from dwelling on them. I don’t exactly like having them, Finno._

Somewhere deeper, or more distant, Fingon heard, _I kept them out for a long time. Sometimes I broke. I did. But not for long. They had everything else. I gave them everything else. Please understand. I’ll try. I’m trying._

Fingon wrapped his arm around Maedhros’s, caressing it, using all his willpower to not squeeze and to leave him enough leeway to escape if he wanted. _I know, I kn-_ he started to think, but he could tell he was walled out again. Maedhros still leaned into him, resting his head against his as they used to so long ago.

“I’m sorry, Finno,” came a tired murmur.

“Nelyo, hush,” said Fingon. “No more apologies, remember?”

“Mm. S- Fuck.”  
  
“That’s better,” said Fingon.

There was a silence. Then-

_Would you care to?_

Fingon’s eyebrows shot up at the suggestion. _Would you?_

Nothing.

“...No.”

Fingon nodded, almost relieved.

 _It was still too soon_ , came the faint, barely noticeable impression of Maedhros’s thoughts.

 _...Yes_.

_I wish you had said something._

_I’d missed you, Nelyo. ...And you kept shushing me_.

“ _Ai_ , Fuck. I know. I… May I apologize one last time?”

 _It won’t be the last_. Fingon hadn’t meant for him to hear that last thought. Or perhaps he had.

Maedhros’s voice was soft, but devoid of emotion. “No. Not if you stay.”

Fingon craned his neck to look up at him. Maedhros’s face was inscrutable, expressionless. “You’re stuck with me, I’m afraid,” Fingon said.

“How will I ever be rid of you?”

“I live only to plague your existence, Nelyo. You’ll never be rid of me.”

Maedhros let out a breath of laughter and leaned his head against Fingon’s again. “I’m twice Doomed,” he murmured. “Seems right.”

Fingon made a noise of derision and took hold of Maedhros’s arm again. There was much they still needed to discuss. There were still barriers, and things might not ever be as they were in Aman. But Maedhros had said he was trying, and Fingon believed him. The walls were coming down and even if there was something terrible behind them, Fingon would be there for it.

 _I’ll be here for it_ , he thought absently, not expecting a reply.

There was a pure, aching sincerity to the last two words that then filled his mind. _Thank you_.

The wind outside shrieked around Himring’s towers, but the fire continued to crackle on into the night.


End file.
